The Rain in Reigate
by IShouldBeOverThis
Summary: Finally. The romantic sequel to The Merry Dance and On Your Mouth I Will Tell It. John and Sherlock go to the countryside to recover after their ordeal.  Explicit. Not necessary to have read the first two stories.  Complete.
1. Chapter 1

For the first week in the cottage, they pace around one another like two animals in a cage. Not hostile, but uncertain. Sherlock is solicitous, treating John like an invalid who needs constant care and minding. He keeps John supplied with hot tea throughout the day and prepares all the meals, simple to be sure, but very fresh. Every morning he walks the half a mile into the village to buy fruit, vegetables, eggs and milk, and meat for the evening meal.

The cottage is a compact little thing with two tiny bedrooms, a shared bath, a decent sized main room and a galley kitchen. It is on loan from a friend of Mrs. Hudson's who lets it to tourists. She's done it up in too much English chintz and faded prints in frames, but it's cozy and serves them well for now. The ceiling is so low that Sherlock can reach up and touch it with the palm of his hand. In the end John found that he couldn't stay in London, that 221b and even the streets seemed too claustrophobic. He knows he'll return, just as he knows that Sherlock will be charging into cases again, but both of them need a break for awhile.

Although it's early March and cold, it is surprisingly clear and John spends as much time outside as he can, sitting at the little metal table in the garden where he can look out at the distant sloping hills and the green patchwork that is the English countryside. Sherlock fusses, wrapping him in blankets and scarves and checking on him regularly. John scolds him and complains that he is not incapacitated. Sometimes John reads the fiction that he finds on the shelves, none of the mysteries, but stories of English life, the complete works of Trollope and some Angela Thirkell. Other times he simply watches nature. The cottage has a good set of binoculars and John enjoys tracking different types of birds and the reawakening flora and what fauna he can pick out as it scurries out of its burrows and hiding places. As a city boy, he never thought he'd find this kind of thing interesting, but now he needs to see things alive and free.

When it gets too dark or cold, he comes inside to eat and watch a little telly before retiring around nine o'clock. Often in the night Sherlock will creep with his customary stealth and grace to John's door to hear him breathing and watch the rise and fall of John's chest. John's taking sleeping pills so his sleep is deep and dreamless.

Sherlock is at loose ends. He has brought no experiments with him and the books in the cottage bore him. Sometimes he will walk the hill collecting samples and sketching in his notebook and John will watch him through the binoculars from his chair. Sherlock buys wine in the village, and they will share it of an evening in the garden, John in blankets and Sherlock in his coat as the sun sinks low.

On the eighth night they are sipping Merlot at the small table, barely 18 inches across. John watches Sherlock smoke, the old habit that he has brought home from America. The setting sun creates a chiaroscuro on the angular bones of his face, and the glow of the cigarette, as he brings it up to his mouth, casts momentary glints in his eyes.

"Sherlock," John says in a low voice and Sherlock panics. There are a five different conversations John could be starting and Sherlock wants none of them, because they either end with John leaving or they involve a degree of pain that Sherlock cannot face.

But instead John says, "I'm going to bed."

Sherlock looks at him sharply. "But it's only seven. Are you feeling alright? Is it the cold? I told you that you shouldn't stay out here."

"I'm fine, Sherlock, it's just that…I thought you might want to come with me."

Of all the things that Sherlock has imagined John saying, that is not one of them, and he feels again that shudder inside his chest as of doors being opened that he always feels, has always felt when John surprises him. His whip-crack mind, normally faster than the speed of sound, cannot process it for a moment and he realizes that he's sitting with his mouth open when he hears John falter, "Or not, I mean, well, just forget I said that. It's all fine. It's always all fine."

And then he's leaning across the table to grab John by the jumper and press his open mouth against John's and he wants to run inside dragging John behind him—he'd stay right here and pull him down on the grass if it weren't so cold—but practical John insists on picking up the smoldering cigarette butt that Sherlock's dropped on the ground and grinding it out. And he makes Sherlock take the wine and the glasses while he picks up the blankets to bring them back inside.

Sherlock only just manages to not throw the glasses in the sink as John drops the blankets on the sofa. Then Sherlock is grasping John and pressing him against the doorframe that leads into John's bedroom to kiss him and kiss him again.

John chuckles, for the first time in a long time, low in his throat and chest. He turns them around so that it's Sherlock's back pressed against the doorframe, and Sherlock understands, slides down bending his knees and braces himself so that they are face to face and then mouth to mouth, like resuscitation, like inhalation, the taste of smoke in both of their mouths now along with the sharp tang of the dark wine. John's cold hands are yanking Sherlock's shirt from his trousers, and running up his back and Sherlock has to pull away for a moment because he's keening from the sensation. He never thought he'd get this again; John's hands on his bare skin, the taste of John in his mouth. And oh, the feel of John's hips against his. They're both so aroused that it's almost painful when their cocks rub together through their trousers. For a moment they simply stop, each breathing heavily as they struggle with emotions and a sort of wonder. The whimpers that Sherlock's making are so needy, so _broken_ and John realizes how much it's cost Sherlock to keep himself under control. He remembers again how fragile and young Sherlock is under his cool exterior.

"John," Sherlock finally manages, "I don't have anything. I didn't think you'd want—"

But what he was going to say is cut off as John kisses him again, pressing him against the wood. There's a flickering weighing of options in both of their minds—butter, olive oil? Is there mineral oil in the cottage? But then John says, "Doesn't matter." To prove his point John works his hand down Sherlock's trousers. There's not enough room in them, even though Sherlock has lost weight, and he can only brush tantalizingly against Sherlock's cock where it's pressed awkwardly down. It's enough to make them both moan.

Now they're stumbling backwards into the room, falling on the bed, frantic to undress themselves, each other, whatever they can reach. Shoes thud against the wooden floor and buttons might be popping. Who cares. Finally skin to skin, pressed together like a closed zipper, the tops of John's feet are touching Sherlock's shins, and even that's electric.

They kiss, but Sherlock is too eager. He's wanted this since he found John in the office, to kiss John, to kiss his skin and to never stop. So he kisses his way down John's chest. John's so thin now. They both are. There are going to be bruises where barely covered bones bash against one another in the struggle. He wants to savor every moment. He wants to rush ahead. He's cataloging everything about John, everything his senses can ingest to bottle them and put them on the shelves in his mind, next to the ones he collected on Christmas Day.

John moans as Sherlock's mouth reacquaints itself with his skin. Those two lost months need to be erased, packed up and put away; deleted if he could. How he's dreamt of this, and like Sherlock, he never thought it would happen. He wants this so much; he's gripping Sherlock's shoulders unsure if he should pull him back up into his arms to kiss or let him continue the path he's tracing.

Sherlock's reached his destination. At first he just holds John's prick in his hands, enjoying the weight, the silken feel of the skin, the raised tracery of veins. He holds John's scrotum, watching with fascination as the skin tightens and whorls like a moving fingerprint. Sherlock flicks his tongue over the tip, slicks down around the head, finally engulfing it with his mouth. John gasps and tries not to push into Sherlock's mouth too hard. Now that it's really happening, it's overwhelming emotionally and physically because he's been psyching himself up all week to make the offer, unsure if that chance was lost forever in Edinburgh. He's not going to last.

"Sherlock," he cries out as he comes without warning. His orgasm surprises him as much as it does Sherlock, leaving him gasping and limp.

Sherlock stays with him, letting John ride it out before taking his mouth away. His hand slides down his own belly to stroke himself as he watches the flush fade from John's skin.

Sherlock slithers back up John's body, unwilling to break contact even for a moment. John pulls Sherlock's head to his, to kiss, to run his tongue along Sherlock's jaw where he remembers Sherlock is sensitive and Sherlock takes a huffing breath.

But soon Sherlock is whimpering, "Please, John, please," and trying to push John's hands down to his cock. They're on their sides by now, and John slides down just as Sherlock had done, to take Sherlock in his mouth. Sherlock takes a little longer and there's more warning, as Sherlock's ahs and moans become faster and louder as he gets harder in John's mouth. Then he's bucking as he comes just as fiercely as John.

He pulls John back into his arms, John's head on his chest.

There are things which need to be said, clearly, but not now. At some point John pads off to the kitchen, naked, and brings what's left of the wine and some cheese and crackers and they eat in bed, affectionate and quiet.

Each of them wake separately in the night and spend a little while gazing at the other. Each has had too many dreams and nightmares to fully trust that this present moment is true.

The morning finds them entangled as if in their sleep they could not bear to let go even as they tossed and turned.

Morning kisses on lips, across bodies, turn into a messy and slightly giggly sixty-nine of moving limbs and awkward interlocking but it works and they are both sucking and stroking and then coming. Sherlock first and then John.

From the foot of the bed, John asks, "What time is it?" Sherlock pulls his watch from the bedside table.

"Nine fifteen."

"When do you think the chemists opens?"

Sherlock laughs, "Impatient, John? I thought that was one of my less endearing traits."

But John is quiet and serious when he replies, "Yes. Because I need you. I've dreamt of you every night for two months."

"Oh," Sherlock answers, "I dreamt of you, but I dreamt you were dead."

They are suddenly somber and neither wants to have this conversation now. So they change the subject as they roll out of bed.

"Do you think they open at ten? How long will it take to walk there? Do you think they'll have lube?"

"They're not in the nineteenth century, John. I'm sure we're not the only gay couple in the village."

They laugh again, relaxed again.


	2. Chapter 2

When they walk into the village together, they giggle the whole half-mile, as if this chilly and overcast day were the funniest thing they've ever experienced. The chemists isn't open by the time they get there, so they go into the grocers holding hands. Sherlock fills his hessian bag as he does every morning, only now every piece of fruit is inexplicably funny and the eggs are just a riot.

Standing at the register at the chemists they are sniggering like sixteen year olds buying their first condoms, and John knows that it's obvious by the way they're touching each other and laughing and looking at each other that the teller knows exactly what they're planning on doing with the **two** bottles of lube that they're buying. He feels obligated to buy something else so he grabs a lip balm and only after it's rung up does it occur to him that that only adds to the impression that they're giving. He wonders if it's a problem in this sleepy little village, that two men are all but shrieking that they're going to go home and shag each other for the rest of the day—don't frighten the horses—but then he thinks that maybe that's just London snobbery as the chemist looks completely nonplussed that they're buying a copious amount of lube at ten o'clock in the morning.

Outside, Sherlock, who knows the town better, yanks John down an alley behind terraced houses, hidden by the high fences on both sides.

"No, Sherlock, no. We can't! Bad enough that we've broadcasted our sex-life to all fourteen people in this town but that we should be charged with public indecency?"

But once out of view, it's John's hands going down Sherlock's trousers to cup Sherlock's bum and pull him closer so they can grind their hips together.

And at that moment, the sky, which had remained clear and sunny for an entire week, gets its revenge by opening up a torrent that drenches them both in seconds and makes the street run deep with water.

There's nothing for it but to dash for home, because they both know that if they try to shelter in the chemists or any other shop until it passes, they're going to be going at it on the floor if the rain doesn't clear fast enough for their desire.

So they run the entire half mile, Sherlock up ahead and John behind as ever, only now they're soaked through, and it's uncomfortable and difficult to run when your erection is wedged down your trousers against your leg. Sherlock has the cottage door unlocked before John gets there, so he can pounce on John as soon as he comes through it, and start to strip off the wet coat, the sodden jumper, the dripping jeans. The organic smell of wet wool is everywhere. Sherlock's relatively dry compared to John because of his long, heavy coat, but water has run all down his back and his curls are plastered to his head and dripping down his neck.

"Sherlock!" John says in his most army voice, "We need to get out of these wet clothes—"

"That's what I'm trying to do!" Sherlock whines.

"—and get warm—"

"That too," Sherlock groans as if the answer should be obvious to John, but John pushes him back.

"I know, I know," he says, looking up into Sherlock's face. "But I need a cup of tea and to catch my breath. Fetch towels, start the fire. It will be ready in just a minute."

Sherlock pouts and grumbles, but heads to the bathroom while John takes the bag into the galley kitchen. He strips out of the jumper, kicks off his shoes and takes off his jeans and sodden socks to spread them on the radiator to dry, so he's dressed in only his t-shirt and pants. He rubs his hair with a kitchen towel and takes several deep breaths, to physically recover from their wild dash, and to both ease back from his lust and to revel in his sense of happiness.

There are broken eggs over everything in the bag, so he rinses off the fruit and the bottles of lube while the kettle comes to a boil. He sets some biscuits on a plate and puts it, a couple of apples with a paring knife, the mugs, and the teapot under a cozy on a tray, and heads out to the main room with its little fireplace.

Meanwhile, Sherlock has stripped, grabbed all the towels in the bathroom and all the blankets, pillows and duvets and dropped them in front of the fire. He's kneeling on the makeshift bed toweling his hair when John comes in.

For a moment they simply stare at each other, breathless with the reality of it. John carefully puts the tea tray down on the overstuffed chair. "Tea." he whispers when he finds that he's gone hoarse.

"None for me, thanks," smiles Sherlock.

"Wasn't a question. Eat a biscuit. I need a cup of tea." But he sinks to the duvet with his mug and reaches out to cup Sherlock's face in his hand. Sherlock turns into it and kisses the palm, moves up to suck on John's fingers. John only manages a few sips before he has to put the mug down to reach for Sherlock and push him down so that John's between Sherlock's legs, pressed into Sherlock's naked body.

"Why not the bedroom?" he murmurs as he leans in to kiss Sherlock's neck and shoulders.

"Warmer here, ah…" Sherlock tilts his head back to reveal more of his neck.

"Idiot," John says but he's nipping along Sherlock's throat when he speaks, so Sherlock ignores it.

"Clothes," commands Sherlock.

John had almost forgotten that he was still wearing his t-shirt and pants, so he sits back onto his calves to pull them off so he can crawl between Sherlock's legs again, now with bare skin touching bare skin. Both of them are already leaking and this remembered sensation is almost enough to send John over the edge.

So he sits back again, ignoring Sherlock's pleading groan, and finds the lube.

"Do you want this?" he asks, and they both know that he's not asking about the sex, about making love to Sherlock, because it's clear that they both want that, but about all of it, the ups and the downs of moving forward and codifying this crazy, unformed thing they have into a solid article. Sherlock gives a minute nod, pulls his legs up and spreads them wider.

The view is amazing. Sherlock, pale skin translucent in the firelight's glow, spread out before him like a piece of fine art, an ethereal saint, a piece of finely carved marble. Sloe eyes, heavy lidded with desire, and rose-pink mouth, panting and open, cock dark and swollen against his stomach. John pours out a generous amount of lube onto his fingers, warms it a bit and slips his fingers between Sherlock's buttocks. When one finger slides inside, Sherlock moans and arches his back, forcing John's finger deeper. John leans down to take Sherlock's penis into his mouth and Sherlock, flooded with the dual stimulus thrashes his head from side to side as he babbles, "John, I'm yours, I'm always yours."

John remembers the last time Sherlock had said those words and flinches, but it doesn't seem that Sherlock remembers, or perhaps he's erasing the memory by saying them again here, an offering instead of a prayer.

Another finger slips in relatively easily. Sherlock's so eager he's willing himself to relax to speed it along. John works in another and slides them in and out for a minute or so until Sherlock commands, "Now, John!" John has to laugh. Sherlock is still Sherlock, impatient and imperious, but John wants it too much to try to assert himself. He removes his fingers and gets himself into position. Desperate with desire and feeling too, he's trembling so badly that Sherlock has to reach down to help him, but then he's home, as close as they can be without climbing into each other's skin. John needs to kiss Sherlock, to close the circle and so he does as he starts moving. Sherlock's purring. There's no other word for it. It's deep in his throat and John can feel the vibration as he slides his tongue around Sherlock's.

John's already so close to coming he can feel it in his teeth, but he wants Sherlock to be there too. He wants them to come together, Sherlock's orgasm setting off his own. So he tries to pull back, recites ribs down the thoracic cage—seven pairs of true, three pairs of false, two pair floating—and runs through the bones of the hand—phalanges, proximal, middle, distal— but neither of those really work, because they simply make him look at the planes of Sherlock's chest, and Sherlock's beautiful hands, so he plunders Sherlock's mouth again and caresses Sherlock's nipples, reaches between them to grip Sherlock's cock and then Sherlock's gasps are speeding up, six-eight time to John's thrusts. John knows a heartbeat before it happens that Sherlock's going to come and he lets himself go as Sherlock clinches around him, coming wet and sticky between them. "I love you," John murmurs into Sherlock's shoulder as he comes down.

Calmed and cleaned up they each have a biscuit and cold tea.

"Put the teapot on the hearth," says Sherlock, "It will warm back up."

"I don't think that Mrs. Hudson's friend will be very happy if we scorch her teapot."

"There are other teapots."

"I could just go boil more water."

"Don't go," Sherlock smiles, that rare and angelic smile, and John can't bear to leave. He puts the teapot on the hearth and curls around Sherlock, Sherlock facing the fire, John pressed up against him.

John remembers that Sherlock has a sensitive back, so he kisses Sherlock's hairline, along the nape of the neck, over the scapula, moving his head down the lumbar vertebrae to the sacral.

"Sacral vertebrae," he murmurs. Anatomy as erotica. It suits them. "Sacred vertebrae."

Sherlock snorts, "Really, John?" but he's already grinding his hips and pushing back into John and soon he's making tiny noises of pleasure.

John's not quite ready, but if Sherlock keeps making those noises, he'll be there soon, so he keeps kissing Sherlock's back, tonguing a small brown mole above Sherlock's left buttock, tracing scars with his fingers and soon he's fully hard.

"Like this?" he whispers.

"Yes."

Sherlock's still open and slick, but John wants to do this all day and all night so he adds a generous amount of lube. He's never really gotten this position to work with women, but he finds it easier with a man and it lets lean in to keep kissing Sherlock's back which makes Sherlock sigh and turn his face into the pillows. John knows he's not going to come, but Sherlock is.

"Touch yourself."

Sherlock slides his hand over his own hard cock and strokes, slowly at first, matching the gentle rhythm that suits the position. Eventually it's too much and he's stroking fast, hand a blur, rolling over the tip until he comes, hips jerking forward so that John has to grab him to keep them together. John wants to stay like this forever, not just because Sherlock tight around him is the most intense pleasure that he's ever felt, but because it's Sherlock coming undone, cool and controlling Sherlock Holmes, coming apart at John's touch.

Too soon he has to pull free but he stays, arms around Sherlock's waist, for a little while longer.

"Tea?" he asks again and they laugh. He wipes himself and then passes the towel to Sherlock before leaning over to take the now hot teapot and pour them both a mug. He slices one of the apples while Sherlock stirs up the fire with the poker and adds some more wood to the embers. The rain has receded to a gentle shower and the wind occasionally gusts water against the windows in an arrhythmic percussion.

They eat, John feeding apple slices and biscuits to Sherlock. "We both need to gain weight. It's going to be pasta, mashed potatoes and oatmeal going forward."

Sherlock makes a face, "All at once?"

John simply swats at him. It feels so good, all of it. The love, the sex and the comfortable companionship that they've always shared.


	3. Chapter 3

They lie down again under the blankets with the fire high, listening to the rain and the wind. Sherlock curls into John's chest, relishing the sweet gurgles of a healthy body beneath his ear. Even though there's a bony shoulder stabbing him in the ribs, John doesn't move. It still surprises him, the way Sherlock likes to be small and protected under his arm.

"It won't be easy, going forward," he says, as if they are continuing the conversation from two long months ago.

"Because it's been so easy up until now," says Sherlock, drily.

"He's still out there, John," he continues, "And I don't know what to do about that. And I hate that. I still want to keep you safe."

"Maybe now that every agency in the world is working together under your brother they'll find him."

"One of the agents over there suggested that it might be a whole organization, that Moriarty became the leader, but the organization pre-existed him."

"Do you think one person could do what he does?"

"I don't know."

"Could you?"

"I don't want to."

"No, but you're smarter and better than he is. Could you put together a network like that?"

"I don't know."

"Could Mycroft?"

"Perhaps. But even he would need a lot of time and access to a lot of resources. He'd almost have to be who he is AND a Napoleon of crime. Plus have an amazing set of ruthless minions."

"Well, he does have Anthea." They laugh as they always do when John breaks the tension. They're relaxed and in this moment everything seems far away.

Soothed by the gentle rain, and the post-coital lethargy, they doze. John wakes first and extricates himself from Sherlock's near smothering clasp. He goes to put on his dressing gown, and brings Sherlock's to him. He makes soup and toast and more tea. They eat in front of the fire and Sherlock does impersonations of some of the Americans that he encountered, much to John's delight.

Warm now, they retire to John's bed with all the pillows and duvets. They make love again, slowly with much gentle exploration of mouths and bodies, kissing along non-erogenous zones and making them erotic: elbows, Achilles tendons, under arms, knee caps. John revels in the slowness, pacing himself to draw it out, Sherlock's knees gripping him tightly around his chest.

Sherlock's thinking how he never thought he'd enjoy this. Or not this much. When he thought about it the past year he thought it might be _pleasant_, the way a good meal might be, and that he would go with it for John's sake. But from that first kiss he knew that it was going to be so far beyond pleasant as to render adjectives meaningless. That first morning, Christmas, he'd been shocked by the pleasure, how good it felt to feel John, heavy and thick inside him, merging with him.

All too soon it's too much and John has to move faster, Sherlock has to grip tighter and John's coming again.

As soon as he can stand it, John kisses his way down Sherlock's chest, flicking over nipples, tonguing along the line of hair on Sherlock's stomach.

John's never had any complaints as a lover, because he is, as he is in most things, careful and considerate and attentive. He's always paid attention to the sounds that a lover makes when they're really enjoying themselves, the movements they make when they're about to come. He knows now what Sherlock likes, what Sherlock needs to take him over the edge, how he feels, how he sounds when he's close, and he uses all of that to keep Sherlock on the cusp for ages, pulling his mouth away at crucial moments to nip at Sherlock's thigh, press a kiss on a hip, causing Sherlock to moan, and then to whimper, then to beg and finally to sob curses, "Nooooo…don't stop! Bastard! Fuck, John, fuck, you can't…, oh, fuck, please!" before John finally lets him come. Sherlock arches his back completely off the bed in a way that looks painful. He wails and spasms again and again, spurt after spurt in John's mouth and even when there's nothing left he's still thrusting and shivering and gasping and it's the most luscious thing that John's ever seen.

He's still shuddering sporadically when John lies back down next to him. "That was…"

"Incredible, mind-blowing, earth-shattering?"

"I was going to say cruel."

"And then you were going to say that you hope I do it again soon."

Sherlock grins, "Yes, but only if I can do it back."

"I love you, you know."

"I had made that deduction."

"Mm, I could just be lusting after your beautiful body."

"You made lunch."

"You being caring was too frightening to continue. I thought the world might implode."

Sherlock chuckles, a low rich sound that seems to reverberate in John's chest. It's soothing and teasing at the same time. It says so much. People think that Sherlock's cold and impersonal. They've never really heard Sherlock, never watched his face crinkle up so mobile, little lines forming above his nose and between his eyes.

The rain continues its thrum and they sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

This time it's Sherlock who wakes. The tone of the storm has changed, gotten harder. It's going to rain all night, and possibly through the next day. He slips from the warm bed and John's embrace although it almost pains him to do so. But, like a cat, he needs a moment to collect himself. He wraps up in his dressing gown and wanders into the main room. The fire's dying.

He stands at the French doors that lead out to the garden. Although it's only 4:30 in the afternoon, the sky is charcoal grey. There's lightening in the distance, the thunder faint. I could retire in a place like this, he thinks. With John.

John slips up behind him, wraps his arms around Sherlock's waist, rests his head against the other man's silk clad shoulder.

"You're gasping for a cigarette, aren't you?"

"I'm always gasping for a cigarette."

John feels rather than sees Sherlock's smirk, "At least you're not so much of an idiot to go out in this and give it a go."

They stand together for a few minutes, quietly without needing to speak until John breaks it.

"What were you thinking, when I came up just now. You looked deep in thought."

"How nice it would be to retire here or someplace like this. With you."

"Retire?"

Sherlock notices that John doesn't question the second part and that makes him smile again to himself.

"Not now, or even soon, but someday.

"I never used to think of retiring. I thought I'd be dead by forty, forty-five at the latest."

John pulls back. "What? Why?"

"The way I live. The things I do to myself, the way I put myself in danger. You said it yourself, I risk my life to prove I'm clever. But now…I don't need to prove that I'm clever. I have you to tell me. He leans his head over against John's, "so I can think about living to old age with you beside me.

"But if you were gone, there wouldn't be much point after that."

It's a casual sentence that Sherlock thinks should be apparent to anyone and so he is startled by John's ferocity as John spins him around to grip his upper arms and yell into his face.

"NO. You don't say that. You don't give up if I die."

Sherlock is stunned. "But why would I want to go on?"

"Because I would want you to."

There's silence for a few heartbeats as they just stare at each other. John's panting, so he takes a deep breath to regain himself before continuing in a quiet, gentle voice.

"Do you know why we have two dog tags? One stays with you and the other is torn off to send home to your loved ones. You bury me with one tag if you have to, but you keep the other and you look at it every day and remember, and remember that I want you to go on living. Do you understand me?"

He pauses and then smiles, "Of course, without me there you'll probably fall into the Thames or be strangled with your own scarf."

Sherlock smiles back, knowing that something terrible has just been avoided. He doesn't fully understand right now, the way he doesn't always understand why people get upset about some things that seem unimportant, but he understands what John's asking and knows he'll try to do it, "So it's better that you don't die,"

"I guess so," John laughs and they lean together, foreheads touching. John moves his hands up to cup Sherlock's face and pull him in for a kiss that might go either way—back to bed or to simple holding. John pulls his mouth away reluctantly and whispers, "Come on, let's move away from the doors. It's freezing here."

So once again John makes tea and Sherlock stirs the fire. It seems as if they could do this forever, the world simply passing them by outside, closed in by the storm. It's not true of course; both know that they'd end up killing each other. Their personalities are too strong. They need other people to temper the space between them. But for now, this is peaceful and John doesn't want to think about what comes next when they return to London.

This time they settle in their respective chairs. They leave the lights off so the fire is the only illumination.

Sherlock gazes at John pensively, "Do you want to talk about what happened, what you went through?"

"I've been thinking about that. I've been questioned so many times by so many different groups, I lost track. But I've wondered, if I tell you, will you be able to catch something that they've missed? Because you're you."

"I don't know," Sherlock says. John's startled to hear that. It doesn't seem modest. It seems almost resigned, as if Sherlock has finally learned that he is human and fallible. John feels as though they've lost something, but he's not sure what.

"How could I resist the temptation to have the world's only consulting detective on the case for free."

"I'm afraid I'll have to charge you. I have rent to pay. My flatmate gets very upset when I don't take payment and end up short," Sherlock smiles.

"I guess you'll just have to take it in flesh then. I'm just a poor doctor with the NHS."

Sherlock kicks at John's foot where his long legs can just reach. "Arse."

John smiles, goes thoughtful, "You know a lot of it."

"I don't really. Start at the beginning when we parted, in Edinburgh."

"After you'd left, after I realized you were gone, I wasn't sure what to do. I knew I couldn't stay there, couldn't stay in that room where we've been happy so I changed the plane ticket. It wasn't hard to do. I decided to return to London, then pack up my things and hopefully find a new place before your return."

"Did they take you there, in Edinburgh?"

"No, the plane ride was uneventful. When I got to Heathrow, remember I had no luggage, I was walking through the terminal when I heard them page me, the courtesy phone.

"It was so stupid. It was like something out of a movie. I picked up the phone but no one was there of course. Someone was nearby. They must have drugged me, not sure how, probably an injection. Or there was something on the phone. I know the Secret Service's been back to check that out; check everything and my plane, nothing. Moriarty's thorough."

"And after?" Sherlock asks.

"After? They Don't know. They must've kept me under. I don't remember the plane ride. I don't remember anything. I don't know how they got me out of the country."

John sounds frustrated, angry at himself, as though he should have known better, been better trained better. As if you could ever train for this kind of thing, Sherlock thinks. "Go on."

"When I woke I was in a sort of flat; it wasn't a cell, but it had no windows, just three tiny rooms and a bathroom. There was a door and I tried repeatedly to break it down, or pull out the hinges, or get it open in any way. Nothing. The walls were concrete cinder blocks. There was food in the kitchenette, a comfortable bed and even some trashy popular novels from the 1970's. The sitting room had a couch and a desk. It was like being back in the veteran's hotel. There was a telly and videos, yes, videos, but no outside connection and that was all. I saw no one for, I guess a month. You lose track of time like that. You end up sleeping a lot, and without a clock, without daylight, you don't know if you've slept for two hours or twenty. I tried timing things with the videos, but I ended up breaking the tape on a couple and I didn't want to lose them. If not for the movies and even the books, I'd have gone mad. They left me some paper and pens. At first I wrote things down, tried to keep a record, and I wrote letters, to you, Harry, Mum, even Mycroft in case…in case something had happened to you, but I worried about running out of paper. I worried about the food lasting too. I didn't know If I was going to be there a week, a month, until I died. I didn't know if anyone was looking for me—"

"John! Even with— even with what happened, you have to know that I would have come to find you."

John smiled, sweetly, sadly, ruefully. "I know, I knew! But I didn't know if you knew that I'd been kidnapped. Remember, I didn't know who'd done it or why. Or if they'd taken you too.

"I rationed the food. Trying to give myself enough to keep up my strength, but not too much in case it was a long haul. I guessed that they didn't actually want me dead or they'd have left me with no food. There was clean water from the taps, so I wouldn't have died of thirst.

"I exercised. Obsessively. I wanted to be strong enough to overpower someone if they came through the door.

"I jury-rigged an alarm with left over tin cans and spoons so that it would rattle to wake me.

"And I tried to think like you. I must have examined every corner of those rooms dozens of times over. Climbed on the furniture to look at the ceiling, pried up the cheap carpeting, ripped apart the furniture, crawled in the kitchen cabinets, looking for bugs, cameras, anything.

"Masturbated. A lot. Thought of you. Thought of what I wished I said or done differently, or would say if I ever saw you again."

John pauses. His eyes flicker to the fire and there's a tension in his posture. "There were times that I really did think that I would go mad. You just lose your bearings like that, with nothing to hang onto. You don't realize how much you need other people, even people you don't know, to keep you grounded. I felt…I felt like my identity was slipping away. When I came to, in the hospital, and they told me it had been a month…it felt like I'd only been awake for ten, maybe fifteen days at most but at the same time I was shocked that a year hadn't gone by.

"I…I did think of suicide. More than once. And ways to do it. I only had dull butter knives but I had tin can lids and there were the bed sheets, although there wasn't anything really to tie it to. I could have drowned myself.

"But I thought of you. I always thought of you. I wondered if you'd been taken too and if they found me, would they find you. I…I needed to stay alive to see you again, if there was any chance at all."

Sherlock stretches his foot out again to caress John's. "And the day of the rescue? How did it go?"

"I must have missed something. There'd never been any indication of moment from beyond the door. I don't remember exactly. I guess I was knocked out somehow."

"Gas, probably."

"Probably. Like "The Prisoner," John smiled. "When I woke up I was bound in the chair. And then there you were. Saving _me_ for once." He chuckles.

Sherlock smiles, but it's a sad smile and John notices.

Sherlock leans back in his chair, legs outstretched, fingers templed in front of his mouth in his thinking pose. John feels a flush of warmth in his chest that isn't sexual, though Sherlock is certainly beautiful this way, but with the pleasure of seeing Sherlock in his element again. Sherlock, the great detective. The mind at work. It's what he first fell in love with, he realizes. Hearing Sherlock figure things out in an instant, having Sherlock pull him into a mystery, at the battlefront again with the most amazing companion he could ever find.

I love him, John thinks and it hits him like a blow to the solar plexus. It shouldn't be a surprise. It isn't really. He's said it today, and he said it on Christmas Day and he whispered it into his pillow every night, and meant it every time. But for some reason, this moment leaves him breathless in its certainty. He will never love anyone like this again. If something were to happen, a thought too terrible to imagine at this moment, he might love someone else, but it will never be this.

"Tell me about the puzzles. I know some of it. I know you wouldn't give up."

"It was terrible. It was in all the useless things that people like you—"

"Idiots.'

"Yes, no, you know what I mean, the trivia. The things that are known or not known, not that can be observed. I half expected him to set up a puzzle where I needed to know the planets of the solar system, or the villains in James Bond."

"I'm sorry about that. I feel like I should never write in my blog again. It gives him or whoever it is, too many ideas of how to get to you, how to get under your skin and how to trick you."

"No, it's not you. He knew about Carl Powers. He would have found a way.

"I just kept thinking that if you were with me you would know the answers instantly, but that was the whole point, I didn't have you."

"Maybe we're meant to be together."

"That's rather fanciful of you."

"No, not like that, but in the sense that we're better together. Work better together."

"That same agent, she said that we can't protect each other all the time. That we'd have to live in a sealed box and never leave it and even then we wouldn't be completely safe."

"But we can never absolutely guarantee that the person we love will be safe. No matter how much we might want to. Life happens."

"Yes, I suppose it does. Doesn't stop me from wanting to try."

John nods, "Tea?"

"The answer to everything."

"No, but a comfort anyway."

John goes to the kitchen and puts the kettle on. He almost jumps out of his skin when Sherlock presses up against him.

He turns to face him. "You're so bloody tall. It isn't quite as obvious when we're…you know…horizontal."

Sherlock smiles his wicked smirk. John can feel his erection against his thigh, slipping free of the robe and Sherlock leans in for a kiss.

It's powerful and intense and John remembers again how strong (and tall) Sherlock can be, so it's no surprise when Sherlock is backing him out of the kitchen, through the sitting room and into the bedroom. It's almost like being danced across a room.

They hit the bed with a satisfying thump. The skin of their thighs is rubbing together…

And the kettle whistles.

Sherlock leans his forehead against John's and they laugh stupidly.

"I'll get it," Sherlock says. "Stay here and…be ready when I get back."

John takes off his robe and tries to straighten the tangled sheets.

It seems ages before Sherlock returns without the tea and holding his phone.

John smiles. "Important?"

"Lestrade. Double homicide, miles apart, but two brothers."

"Moriarty?"

"Doesn't appear so." Sherlock shrugs. "It can wait. Now where were we?"

But John pushes him away. "No, you'll be distracted. Go look up the train schedules and pack your things. I'll clean up and get ready to go."

"But…"Sherlock begins. He sounds plaintive, but John knows he's torn.

"John, will you…will you be alright in London, in Baker Street? You can stay here if you like. I'll come back. It shouldn't take too long."

John smiles gently, "We tried separating before. Didn't work out so well."

He pauses and his eyes flicker down. He licks his lips, "The truth is, I don't know. I won't know until I get there. There will probably be moments…that are hard. But I should be there. I need to be there, with you."

Sherlock understands and smiles.


End file.
